No Such Thing As Honor
by kookookarli
Summary: It was not honor that drove him to march an army to Erebor. It was neither greed nor revenge, no matter what the King Under the Mountain believed. It was a simple desire. Sequel to None the Wiser


Thranduil wasn't quite the same after the dwarves had escaped.

No one for sure knew why.

All they knew was that he seemed lonelier, and he drank more.

Thranduil liked to tell himself that he never thought of his pretty dwarf after his unfortunate disappearance. But that would be a lie, it is fortunate that he never tried to delude himself into thinking that he was an honorable elf.

Honor was for dwarves, and for men. For mortals who needed such things to enhance their short lives.

Elves knew better. There was no such thing as honor. Not really.

It was not honor that drove him to march an army to Erebor. It was neither greed nor revenge, no matter what the King Under the Mountain believed. It was a simple desire.

It was desire that lead him to search for his beautiful dwarf.

He saw him, from a distance. Kíli stood behind his uncle, next to his brother. In front of the hobbit.

He was no longer wearing the clothes the elven king had made for him, but rather armor that was very obviously dwarven. It almost as appeared as if he was compensating for something. He didn't look comfortable in such garb, it didn't suit him as the robes and leggings did.

But he had kept the bow.

Thranduil didn't see his dwarf again until much later.

He had caught short glimpses, but nothing that sated his curiosity.

He got to witness him in action, fighting, perfectly in tune with his blonde, obviously dwarfish, brother. They were working together to protect their uncle, the king.

The blonde would duck and knife an oncoming warg, troll, or orc, and at the same time Kíli would draw his bow and fire. His aim was always true, for he never missed a target. Many a foe fell before the elvish weapon held in the hands of the dwarf prince.

That's what he was, wasn't he, a prince.

When the enemies were too close for an arrow to do much or anything, it was only then that he reached for his sword. Tempered dwarfish steel.

It didn't suit him, he was much more graceful and deadly with the elvish weapon.

Thranduil couldn't watch him uninterrupted as he would have wished. He was fighting a battle, after all. And if he was slowly making his way closer and closer to his dwarf, there was no one around to comment.

He turned around and swiftly stabbed the approached warg in the chest, quickly working to remove the head of it's orc rider. He worked quickly, scouting the immediate area, keeping an eye on the dwarrow, and cutting his way through the opposing armies.

It was then that he saw him.

Azog was approaching the remaining members of the line of Durin much faster than he would prefer. For while he had no care for either the king or the heir, he knew in his heart that Kíli would die before he let any harm come to him.

He had learned as much from both their fireside chats in the evenings so long ago, as well as jus from a quick judge of character. He was stubborn and foolhardy, and fiercely protected those he loved and considered family.

And to the elven king's horror, that was exactly what he was doing.

The older dark haired dwarf had his back to the pale orc, and was fighting off many beasts on his own. His beautiful, stupid dwarf was back to back with his brother, working to hold off against a pair of wargs. Neither of them were aware that their Uncle's greatest foe was far too close for comfort.

And that is when it happened. They were distracted, fighting for their own lives as well as each other's, they had no way to anticipate the swinging blade. No way to defend themselves against it. But, nonetheless, it cut through their armor and bodies as if they were nothing.

They kept on fighting. The blonde dwarf was quickly weakening. The dwarven king had finally realized what had happened and stepped up, but he too was quickly struck down. Not by a passing sword, but rather by the mace held by the terrible pale orc himself.

His beautiful, wonderful dwarf was the only one left fighting. He launched himself at the beast, and Thranduil had no option but to keep watching as his lovely dwarrow was practically torn to pieces.

No one connected the broken scream that echoed through the battlefield, with the king of the mirkwood. No one noticed that the moment the second nephew of Thorin Oakenshield fell was the moment that he let loose his rage that had built over thousands of years.

When hours after the battle had finished, and Thranduil had needed little to no words from the hobbit to go to the royal tents and heal the quickly dying dwarves, no one said a word.

When they heard a cry of anguished mourning echoing from those same tents less than an hour later, no one said a word.

When years later, he started to truly fade, with not even his son anchoring him to the land of the living, no one said a word.

No words were spoken when for the first time in hundreds of years there was a burial ceremony for an elf that died off the battleground.

And when, years later, a dwarven bow was discovered in their past king's personal chambers, not a word was spoken.

.


End file.
